


Twelve Days of Winterkink

by dragonofdispair



Series: Unrelated Prompt Responses [55]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alien Biology, Altered Mental States, BDSM, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Consensual rape fantasy, Dirty Talk, Discussions of Recreational Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Holiday Cheer, Kinky Sex Games, M/M, Not Safe/Suitable for Work, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pheromones, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Prejudice, Role Playing, Rough Sex, Situations which other characters believe to be dubious consent, Snowball Fight, Subdrop, Topdrop, pain play, virgin roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: It’s an old game of theirs. When a pursuit vehicle loves a stealth specialist... Jazz likes being chased, and Prowl giving chase. They’ll use anything and everything they can to go deeper into the fantasy — roleplay, stories, props, even processor overrides and drugs. But there is one thing Prowl has always held back, because of fear. 
Now it’s Autobots’ first Christmas. A time of trust and love and friendship… and rebirth.  Prowl’s not the only one changing the way he thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what I spent November doing.
> 
> Written for the writing group’s Winterkink challenge. We could choose from either a holiday bingo card or a kink bingo card (generated by the group), and write whatever we wanted for the prompts on our chosen rows. I decided to choose one of each and combine the prompts on my rows. Which meant I ended up with the prompts Mistletoe/Corruption, Snowball Fight/Resistant Submissive, Christmas Eve/Virgins or Inexperienced Partners, Star/Friendship and Affection, and Snowflake/Pheromones. When I started, I knew I wanted to write Prowl as the dominant partner, but it was _supposed_ to be just five short, mostly unrelated scenes of Christmas themed porn, not.... _this._
> 
> Trigger warnings: It’s a cavity-inducing story of Christmas fluff about alien biology, prejudice, and rape fantasies… O.o Riz is right; it sounds really bizarre when you put it like that. XD
> 
> Beta’d by 12drakon

"Ocelot."

"Hu-what?" Jazz couldn't quite believe his audios. "Really? You're a pursuit vehicle; thought you'd go with something like a wolf or other critter that chases down their prey." Jazz himself had chosen a cheetah for his addition to the  _ Ark's _ collection of Christmas ornaments. Lightweight, agile, stealthy, and above all  _ fast _ . There wasn't a mech on the  _ Ark _ who'd watched that nature vid on African wildlife who had contested Jazz's claim. And if it wasn't a critter the average human actually thought of as stealthy? Well, that was a kind of stealth all its own. "Especially with those doors," Jazz continued. "Visual communications, just like a canid's ears and tail."

Prowl ducked his head. Embarrassed. "You're right. Wolf then. Forget I said anything."

Then Prowl got up to make a hasty retreat and would have succeeded in skedaddling out of the room if Jazz hadn't demonstrated his speed right then and caught the Praxan's hand before he could move out of reach. 

Prowl gave a token tug, then surrendered. The rest of him may have looked calm, but those doorwings betrayed him. They drooped. Surrender, even a bit of nervousness. His refusal to meet Jazz's visor was even more telling. Frag. He and Prowl didn't have much in the way of  _ issues _ anymore, but it looked like he'd found one.

So he treaded softly as he could. "Ain't nothing wrong with an ocelot, Prowler. It's just a little bit of porcelain, not a code-change. You wanna your ornament to be a little tree-cat... Well, you're stealthy enough to be any cat you please. I just thought... You know, pursuit vehicle."

"No, you are right," Prowl insisted. "A wolf is a much better match, and I don't want to remind —" he stopped. Jazz just waited. Jazz was  _ famous _ for being a busybody and prying all sorts of secrets out of mechs, not just Decepticons. He would have left this one alone, for Prowl, but Prowl was the one who'd said anything. Which meant he'd talk, just as soon as he worked his way past... whatever. Sure enough, Prowl ducked his head, hunching his shoulders as though to protect himself from a blow, and said, "I don't want to remind people about the pheromones."

Ocelots… Praxans... pheromones… He’d heard the rumors, of course, but..."Those're real," Jazz blurted out. 

Prowl flinched. "Yes."

"What about —"

"NO!" Prowl suddenly stood, stumbling backwards. He held out his hands insistently, but when Jazz went to take them, he pulled away. "I would never. Please Jazz, believe me. I wouldn't!"

"Shhh," Jazz soothed. "Ain't making an accusation, love. I know you wouldn't. Was gonna ask how that worked with Smokescreen and Bluestreak."

Prowl settled. "Yes. All Praxans have that capability. It's not... It's just a way Praxans communicate with each other. We're built to withstand our own chemical signals." Prowl looked down. "Personally, I am not surprised they ended up together. Smokescreen's record of other criminal activities practically ensures that accusations will be made if he beds anyone who is not capable of withstanding his..." Prowl shoulders hunched, "pheromones."

"And Blue?"

"Bluestreak is lonely for the scents of his own kind," Prowl said sadly. "It's... Imagine being unable to speak. To  _ sing," _ he amended, knowing how much Jazz  _ needed _ music. "Because if you do, you will exceed the decibel tolerances of nearby mechs' audios, and be charged with assault with a deadly weapon because of the damage."

Or, apparently, if those rumors Jazz had heard back when he and Prowl had first started courting were anything like the truth, charged with attempted rape for saying hello.

Locked doors, a very odd shipment of electric air filters as soon as someone figured out how to use a Sears catalogue, and one of Red Alert's rants about how quiet Bluestreak was when he and Smokescreen were alone in their (locked, air-filtered) room all suddenly made a lot more sense.

"And you?"

Defensive was back. "I don't — !"

"I know." Jazz took Prowl’s hands and this time Prowl let him. "Do you miss it?"

Prowl's doors drooped again. "You're all I've ever needed," he insisted.

"That wasn't a no." Something truly horrible occurred to Jazz just then. Prowl had compared it to singing, and Soundwave hadn’t been the first Decepticon interrogator to use enforced silence as a way of torturing Jazz. It was that obvious that Jazz needed his music. Jazz hadn’t broken under that torture, but…Prowl had often been the one to pick up the pieces afterwards. “Does it  _ hurt?” _

The way Prowl’s doors fell even further was all the answer Jazz needed, but Prowl answered anyway, “No.” He looked away. “Not physically.”

.

.

.

"So what's it like?" Jazz asked once he'd gotten Prowl calmed and settled onto their bed. One or two feathers that had escaped the pillows Jazz had painstakingly made drifted around them like snowflakes. 

"Nothing, because I don't do that," Prowl insisted. 

"Hmmm..." Jazz was noncommittal on that point. He didn't doubt Prowl at all. Prowl was as virtuous as they came. He didn't fear for his virtue, such as it was, with Prowl. But given what he'd coaxed Prowl into admitting earlier, this was just plain unacceptable. Maybe Jazz was mixing duty with pleasure, but he was suddenly having all sorts of  _ fantasies _ about how he could fix this for his lover. If he was going to make any plans, he needed information, and if he was going to convince Prowl to make a few of his fantasies come true, Prowl needed to know he had all the information to properly consent. "I know you  _ haven't. _ I'm just curious."

Prowl held out a few moments longer, then sighed. "I don't know what it's like for a non-Praxian. Drugged, would be my best guess, but I've  _ never _ tested it."

"Feel like testing it?"

"No!" Prowl flinched back. "How many times — ?" He quieted when Jazz put his finger to Prowl's lips. 

"Love, I  _ ain't _ making an accusation. I  _ know _ you haven't. Not on me or anyone." Jazz replaced his finger with a light kiss. "Ain't trying to trick you into a confession. I'm making a  _ suggestion." _

"What suggestion," Prowl said warily, "exactly?"

_ "I'd _ like to test it. On me." Jazz said quietly, serious and honest. "I consent. I want to feel what it's like."

Prowl sat up. Jazz let him. "I do not disbelieve you, Jazz. Praxans were only allowed outside Praxus if it could be demonstrated they could control their pheromones. Still some ended up jailed. Praxus reclaimed a great many of its citizens whose testimony said their partners had specifically consented." Doorwings drooped again. "More than fearing criminal charges, I do not want you to ever feel like I took advantage of you, whether you consent beforehand or not."

Silently Jazz cursed. "It don't have to be interfacing," he said. "You said it's just another way of talking. Surely Praxans say things to each other other than, 'Let's frag'."

He'd hoped to provoke a laugh, or even a small chuckle, but Prowl just looked thoughtful. Which Jazz supposed was a second best reaction. "We do. Did."

"Then say something! Say ‘Hi’ to me like a Praxan."

Prowl got up. 

For a moment Jazz watched his lover walk to the door of their habsuite, fearing he'd pushed too far and Prowl was leaving. Prowl stared at the door for a long, long moment and it was on the tip of Jazz's tongue to apologize and to retract his request. But then the Praxan locked the door and turned back. He took a deep in-vent. 

"Please stand up, Jazz," Prowl said calmly, but Jazz could see his nervousness in the set of his doorwings. "It will be hard enough greeting you like someone I'm not already interfacing with, without you laying in our bed."

Jazz stood without hesitation, but not without question. "There something wrong with our berth?"

"No. But it already smells like us. Faintly, but... As Hound will tell you, every mech has their own unique scent, and the combination of yours and mine together influences the... nuances of a Praxan's chemical greeting. I'm trying to refrain from saying, 'Let's frag'."

Prowl quirked a very small smile at throwing Jazz's joke back at him, and Jazz barked out a laugh. "Right. Outta the bed it is."

Prowl was definitely more nervous than Jazz was. He took a deep breath as they stood in the center of the room. "I don't think I can think of you as a stranger; your scent is too familiar. So I will greet you as though we are already friends."

"Go for it, Prowler."

Prowl stepped a short distance away, held up his doorwings and flicked them. Jazz realized he'd seen that hundreds,  _ thousands _ of times since Praxus had fallen and the survivors had joined the army. But this time, instead of staying what Jazz's Polyhexian/Iaconian sensibilities said was a conversational distance away, Prowl stepped close and swept Jazz's hand into his. At first Jazz thought Prowl was going to kiss it, but no, that was a  _ human _ thing — a very fun human thing, but still a thing they'd adopted from their human hosts. Instead, Prowl deliberately blew a breath of hot air across the chemo-sensors in Jazz's fingertips.

Suddenly Jazz was  _ fixated _ on his lover's doorwings, splayed out behind him at a most pleasing angle as he leaned over Jazz's hand. Shiiiiny. He couldn't look away. Not even when Prowl nervously retreated to let Jazz recover. He wasn’t even aware of his fans clicking on as his frame heated up, or his mouth coming open to pant desperately.

His interrogation resistance protocols kicked in a moment later, informing him he'd been drugged, substance unknown, and started clearing the chemical's effects from his code. Firewalls came up automatically to defend his processor against an attack that wasn’t coming.

Other, related, protocols tagged Prowl as a threat. Jazz's first thought when he could think something other than,  _ Mmm... Prowl shiny. Jazz  _ **_like_ ** _ shiny _ was,  _ Frag, good thing he stayed over there. _ Ruthlessly he shut down those threat protocols and wrote some highly aggressive blocks to keep his defenses from  _ ever _ automatically tagging his lover as a threat. It didn't eliminate the danger, but vastly reduced the circumstances under which he’d automatically lash out at Prowl before conscious decision-making caught up. 

"M'good, Prowl," Jazz drawled, though it was muzzier than he'd like. He shook his head free of the little spider homes it felt like had accumulated in there. Prowl may not have been trying to say,  _ Let's frag, _ but that’s how Jazz’s systems had been interpreting that little chemically loaded puff of air. Also, he was pretty sure that, had Prowl actually spoken, Jazz would have had a hard time disagreeing or saying no. Aphrodisiac, increased suggestibility, effortless delivery, and no side effects… 

Did it make him a horrible person that his thoughts ran more towards,  _ Good thing all the Praxans are on our side _ and  _ I really should get Smokie to assist in interrogations _ instead of Prowl's obvious worries about interfacing? It was  _ Prowl. _ Jazz didn’t have anything to worry about.

"Good news for both of us is that anyone tries that trick on me unwilling, and he's probably gonna end up gutted. Interrogation resistance recognized I wasn't in my right mind and combat protocols came on. Fixed that. Ain't gonna shoot you for saying hello, but you can be assured that unless I'm physically restrained, as long as I'm going along with it, I'm willing." 

"While that is a relief to hear, I'm uncertain why you think I require that assurance. You wished to know what it felt like. Now you know. I'm not going to  _ ever  _ —"

Jazz held up a hand. "I know. You ain't ever going to try and use this to make me do something I don't want to. That's why I said it was a reassurance for  _ both _ of us. Because I'd  _ really _ like it if you did that again. And I think you'd feel better knowing that whatever happens, I'll shoot you before I let you rape me — no matter what sort of chemical persuasion you’re packing beneath your plating."

As Jazz had expected, Prowl's doorwings went up in surprise, then sagged in relief. "I... That does make me feel better."

"So!" Jazz declared. "That was really fun, and you cannot imagine how much I want you to do it again now — wait!" Prowl hadn't moved, of course, too busy staring, more and more slack-jawed the more Jazz talked. "Is it just the sensors in our hands that can pick it up? Is that why you can't stop touching me?"

Prowl stiffened, "I don't mean —"

"Yeah, yeah," Jazz waved away the protest. "You ain't overstepping. Frag, if anyone's being too intimate about casual touch in this relationship, it ain't you, love. But you also said that our scents combine on the bed. Guessing you're picking some of my whatever passes for pheromones in non-Praxans, even if I'm not aware of it."

Prowl relaxed. "Fingertip sensors are the least invasive way to pick up a mech's pheromones, yes. And..." he looked away, doorwings taking on an embarrassed angle. "I will admit to finding yours extremely pleasing."

"So when you let me hang all over you, it's because I'm rubbing up against your chemosensors?"

A cough. "Not the  _ only _ reason." Prowl looked like he was about to combust from embarrassment. "But you do have a tendency to rub against a greater number of more intimate sensors than I would allow absolutely anyone else."

"What's the most intimate?" 

Prowl sputtered. "What?"

"What's the most intimate place I've rubbed you? You know," Jazz grinned, "just so I know how to do it more often."

Prowl sputtered more, and Jazz thought he wouldn't answer. But, "The sensors at the back of my mouth," he said. "You kept away from those until you tried human kissing, but... It's a very Praxan thing to do, to exchange breaths in that manner, since those are the most sensitive chemoreceptors on a Cybertronian body, and the greatest concentration of pheromones are expelled through those vents."

Suddenly Jazz was assaulted with the image of Bluestreak and Smokescreen necking on the couch in the  _ Ark's _ common room. Did that mean even without letting off enough pheromones to affect those around them... NOT THINKING ABOUT THAT! Instead, he deliberately recalled Prowl's first introduction to human kissing. Jazz had thought he'd have to spend some time explaining that, while not historically true, the wartime Cybertronians all had powerful sensors in their lips and tongues for detecting contaminated and poisoned energon, so kissing would actually be pleasurable. Then he'd expected to spend some time cajoling Prowl to try it. Then probably deal with a few processor crashes, before getting Prowl’s agreement. Instead, Prowl had looked stunned and pleased. He let Jazz kiss him right there.

_ I asked him to exchange scents like a pair of Praxan lovers, _ Jazz realized. Of course Prowl wasn't going to turn that down, even if he was still holding back the majority of his chemical arsenal.

"Well this has been all sorts of educational," Jazz said lightly. "And awesome," he added, before Prowl could twist himself into thinking there was a downside to learning more about his lover's frame type. "Back to my original topic. How do I convince you to do that again? And maybe more. Because, lover," Jazz leaned against Prowl, making sure to rub up against every chemosensor he knew about. "I really want to do that again."

"Tomorrow," Prowl said firmly.

"Huh?" was Jazz's extremely intelligent answer. 

"If you still believe you want to do this tomorrow evening, I will consider it." Absently Prowl rubbed his chin against Jazz's sensor horns. At the same time he brushed his fingers gently over Jazz's throat. It was a pair of gestures familiar to Jazz; Prowl had rubbed his chin against the stubby horns on Jazz's helm for the first time barely a klik after confirming he had permission to touch them.

What did that mean to a Praxan?

Jazz was so busy wondering that he almost missed Prowl's next words: "And go see Ratchet." 

Cue the pouting. "Well that ain't fair." Jazz revved his engine, letting his lover know just how much he'd like to do something naughty  _ tonight. _

Prowl kissed him, and this time Jazz didn't overlook the tiny puff of air blown through his slightly parted lips as just one of his lover's unique quirks. He didn't know how to affect his scent, but he thought as many sexy thoughts as he could, then blew a tiny breath back into his lover's mouth before he pulled away. Prowl shuddered, engine whining in sudden arousal, so Jazz guessed he'd gotten it right. Or just him doing it deliberately was something Prowl couldn't help but respond to.

It took an obvious exertion of willpower, but Prowl pushed Jazz away. "Due to our experiment earlier, I cannot be certain you are speaking with your right mind. You say the effects have cleared, but there is no way to be certain of that. No, Jazz. I will not interface with you tonight. I will  _ especially _ not take your consent to do so under a stronger influence of my chemical… arsenal, as you called it, until you have seen Ratchet, tomorrow, to ensure you are capable of consent."

It wasn't what Jazz  _ wanted, _ but he could see his lover's point. And whatever his reasons, Prowl had said no. "Please tell me you ain't gonna find someplace else to sleep. We've been sharing a berth for millennia; you can't say I haven't consented to that." Prowl wavered. Jazz could see he was on the edge of saying just that. "We'd still be in the bed, if you hadn't asked me to get up for the experiment." Jazz pointed out. "After I knew about your ability to make yourself irresistible, but before you'd given me a taste. We won't do anything. Just sleep, kay?"

"I shouldn't," Prowl said quietly, but allowed Jazz to lead him back to the bed. 

"Why not?"

Prowl just looked miserable. He was  _ not _ spending the night alone if Jazz had anything to say about it. "You don't want to," Jazz said quietly, seriously, "tell me. But believe me: I ain't gonna think you took advantage because we slept together on a berth we've been sharing for more than half the war."

"Alright."

Jazz beamed and pulled Prowl into the bed after him. A few minutes of fussing with their positions and with the pillows saw them curled up together and plugged into the recharge berth. Prowl initiated recharge protocols immediately, and his frame went slack. Jazz watched for a moment, then indulged in a light kiss on Prowl's shoulder where Jazz's head rested.

What did Bluestreak or Smokescreen or Hound (or Ravage, his processor supplied, making him go  _ ew, ew, ew _ and wish he could bleach his microchips) smell when Prowl or Jazz, was nearby? Did they smell like each other? What sort of information was he leaving on his lover's plating just by breathing?

_ Hope they can smell he's mine, _ Jazz thought.  _ Mine, mine, mine... _ He fixed the thought in his mind, let the emotion change the rhythm of his fuel pump, then deliberately let out a breath that skittered silently across his lover's plating.

Jazz had no idea if that had actually done anything, but he initiated his own recharge feeling quite pleased with himself anyway.

.

.

.

Prowl was gone when Jazz woke up. He usually was; the movement had long been tagged as safe and no longer woke his partner. 

Jazz stretched in the pillows that had been tucked lovingly around his frame to support it. He imitated a human-style yawn as he breathed in, and disconnected the charging cord from his medical port situated above the plugs on his wrist. The overwhelming scent of feathers assaulted him, but did it smell just a little like him and Prowl? He could pick up a whiff of Prowls systems — heated metal and ozone and soft copper under the faint scent of the human-made soap and beeswax-based polish his lover preferred — if he leaned in and tucked his face against Prowl’s plating, but he couldn't recall ever smelling himself before. He buried his face in one of the pillows, trying to sense something other than just cloth and feathers and the cold metal of the recharge berth.

No dice.

He checked the duty schedule as he looked over his plating and deemed himself shiny enough to skip the public wash racks this morning. He was scheduled for a day off; Prowl was scheduled for a long-range patrol with Hound. Jazz was  _ certain _ that yesterday Prowl had been scheduled for the command center. The only two mechs who could change the roster on such short notice were Prowl and Prime. Jazz growled in frustration at the obvious avoidance tactic. 

Well... The sooner Jazz got that doctor's note, the sooner he could assure his lover everything was fine.

With that in mind, Jazz pinged Ratchet's automatic scheduling system and requested a non-urgent check-up for some time today, then went about his day. Prowl may have given him the day off, but party preparations waited for no mech.

Usually "quality testing" Sideswipe's latest batch of high grade would be an excuse to spend the rest of the day drunk, but not with an appointment coming up as soon as Ratchet could spare a few minutes. So Jazz behaved, and good thing too, because Ratchet pinged back that he had time free for a checkup before he’d even finished the tasting cups Sideswipe had prepared. Jazz assured Sideswipe that the brew was good, then sauntered to the medic's domain.

"What's the problem?" Ratchet asked gently as Jazz entered. "If your radio were on the fritz again you would have made getting it fixed a higher priority."

Too true. Jazz hopped up on the medical berth and let Ratchet run his scanners over him. He was half tempted to make the medic figure it out on his own, but no. He specifically needed Ratchet to be willing to tell Prowl that Jazz was in his right mind. Or as right a mind as Jazz ever was, anyway. "Need you to check my code for foreign influences."

Instantly Ratchet's gaze was much sharper. "If you suspected you were compromised, that is  _ not _ a low-priority check up."

"Ain't compromised," Jazz huffed. "I know where I got exposed, and to what, and it ain't anything from Decepticons. You're gonna find the effects of a bit of high grade from just a few minutes ago, then a bit of an aphrodisiac drug that affected me for about fifteen minutes yesterday. It's that second I need you to confirm is cleared out, or Prowl may not interface with me ever again."

Ratchet gave him a judging look — Earth had no  _ safe _ way to make or program some of the mind-altering substances Jazz had once used frequently, and Ratchet had a tendency to think of every user as an addict, which Jazz was  _ not _ — but obligingly connected a data pad to Jazz's medical port and started his scan.

Handshake protocols, then an exchange of authorizations from the data pad, and Ratchet was in. Interrogation protocols still warily tracked Ratchet's progress. Well aware that one misstep could leave Jazz apologizing to a corpse, Ratchet stayed in the activity logs. Jazz usually had good control, and the medic was an ally, but Ratchet had seen enough accidents when a medic misstepped with an operative's code. He was understandably cautious.

The medic scrolled through the code and decision trees from the incident last night and Jazz saw Ratchet frown. Then he scrolled through it again.

"The good news," Ratchet said with a sigh, "is that, yes, the drug has completely cleared out. The bad news is that I have to ask some questions about the incident that are going to seem a bit invasive. Praxan pheromones do leave a distinct imprint on the activity logs. How much do you remember after he dosed you?"

"Everything. Ain't got a memory interruption, Ratch."

"That is a relief to hear. You've got an interruption in your logs, a period where you were not in control of your own actions. Your own programming resumed control after only a few seconds, but what did he try to make you do? There's no shame in succumbing; it is an extremely powerful drug that Praxans produce."

"Nothing." Jazz's visor narrowed. "And I don't think I like that you're implying he would. Told you:  _ Prowl's _ the one worried it hasn't cleared out.  _ I _ would have trusted what my own systems were telling me. I know mechs talked, but you! Thought you didn’t like vicious rumor-mongering."

Ratchet frowned. "You're right, of course. I've no reason to suspect Prowl of wrongdoing, except..." he nodded to the highlighted section of Jazz's activity logs from yesterday. "What happened then? Did he accidentally dose you? Because if he's not controlling that as well as we thought he was, then arrangements will have to be made."

It wasn't what Ratchet had  _ said, _ technically, but when Jazz heard "arrangements", his mind could help but recall what Prowl had said about Praxans having to be reclaimed from foreign prisons. His visor narrowed further. "Brig cell" ( _ concentration camp _ , went the darkest depths of Jazz’s processor) was what Ratchet meant, whether Prowl had done anything wrong or not. 

Jazz wished he could be surprised, but he’d heard all this before (and not just in relation to Prowl or pheromones); he’d just not given the rumors any credibility. And  _ Ratchet! _ ... Jazz almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The medic had been a staunch defender of more Polyhexian refugees against vicious rumors than just Jazz. Jazz had thought the medic open-minded and fair. If Ratchet had hinted he felt this way about Praxans before, when the most vicious rumors about Prowl had been circulating, Jazz would have requested a different medic for this check up.

"His control's as good as ever," Jazz said icily. "My curiosity, on the other hand... That’s about as out of control as it always is. I asked him to give me a little puff to see what it was like." And if Jazz had his way, it wouldn't be the last puff of pheromones Prowl would give him. Like singing. Even if the only mech Prowl could sing to was Jazz, he was  _ going _ to give his lover the opportunity to do it. "Again, I don't like your implications, Ratch. Ain't  _ anyone _ in this army more honorable than Prowl." Something occurred to Jazz just then, and he let anger spark through his frame. "This ain't the first time you've checked my code for his influence, is it? Back when he and I started dating. You told me it was my code edits to resist capture and interrogation that had you concerned, but you were really checking that Prowl was keeping his pheromones to himself."

Ratchet sighed. "The code edits you've made for your profession  _ were _ a concern, and I would have checked up on them just as much. But so was your relationship. Besides going over a mech’s activity logs, there's just no other way of determining how much, if any, influence a Praxan is exerting on a non-Praxan. You can be told to act normally, and you would. A prisoner in your own frame. There was a reason those non-Praxans who chose to live inside Praxus before the war were called ‘thralls’. But Prowl assured me — assured  _ Prime _ — he would never subvert your will. As your spec ops code settled without any evidence that he was using his pheromones on you, we believed him. But when I saw that," he gestured again to the data pad, "I had to check."

Only slightly mollified, Jazz sighed. "Well, you've concluded I'm in control right now." Ratchet nodded. "Then I need a note to that effect to give Prowl. And stay the frag out of our sex lives from here on."

.

.

.

"Frag off," Jazz said as Prime sat down next to him in the mess hall. Making mech-sized gingerbread houses out of actual gingerbread wasn't a thing that was happening. Instead Jazz's edible-looking Christmas construction was made out of wood and styrofoam and a lot of paint. Drawing up the blueprints to reinterpret the main temple in Iacon in faux-cookie and glittering plastic "gumdrops" had been fun to make Grapple and the other Autobot architects do, but Jazz had opened up the actual building as a communal activity. Whenever a bot or few had the time, they'd sit down and work on it a bit. Social and fun! 

Usually he'd welcome Optimus for that reason. Right now, though, Jazz was focusing more on fitting the fiddly bits together as a way of calming down. He didn't want to talk to Prime about that  _ thing _ he just knew Ratchet had blabbed right to their leader.

"Jazz..."

"Don't wanna hear it, Prime," Jazz snapped. "If you'd told me what was going on, I would've talked to Prowl and we would've let Ratch run his scans all he wanted, but  _ both _ of you are assuming guilt on the part of one of the most honorable people in existence simply because he's got a different frame type than us."

Would he be so pissed, Jazz wondered, if Prowl hadn’t been so certain last night that every question Jazz had was going to be an accusation? Frag… It hadn’t even occurred to him that Prowl could have used his pheromones on Jazz until Prowl himself had tried to assure him he hadn’t. But now he was finding that he’d been very much in the minority about believing Prowl over prejudice. He sort of expected that from the grunts, true, but this was Ratchet and  _ Prime, _ not a pair of vicious gossipers trying to smear the rep of the officer who’d just assigned them six shifts of punishment detail.

"For which I owe both him and you sincere apologies," Optimus rumbled quietly. "It simply disturbed me watching you court him and not to know if it was your will, or his, that compelled you."

"We were courting. Like any other pair of mechs. Wouldn't have worked if it weren't both our wills." Jazz glared sideways at Optimus, daring him to contradict that. 

He didn't. "I know better now. But then, Prowl had only just joined our forces, and you were only just making the transition from soldier to special operative. None of us were sure of anything. My only thought was for how to protect you, without myself interfering with your right to choose your own mate. I do not doubt either your competence or his integrity, now."

Jazz revved his engine. "Then why'd Ratch jump to all the wrong conclusions when I went in just to make sure a little greeting-puff had cleared out?" Jazz huffed and answered his own question. "What you doubt and what Ratch does are different things. Well at the risk of being an  _ exhibitionist," _ Jazz snarled, making Prime flinch; public indecency was just one of those accusations Iaconians liked to fling at Polyhexians, this one because they almost couldn’t help making minor physical demonstrations of love in public, showing off a relationship, "I'm saying right now that he and I are going to continue playing with this. So stay the frag out of our sex lives."

"I know you're not an exhibitionist," Optimus said. "Or any of the other things you might have been called back then. And what you and Prowl do — consensually — is no one's business but your own. May I please simply ask why? I thought of all mechs, it would be you who reacted most violently to having your will subverted."

"War and alien biospheres without the ingredients to cook up the good stuff have been rather slag for our usual habits, but I  _ am _ the king-mech for taking all sorts or recreational drugs for all sorts of reasons. That little whiff I got was fun and didn't even come with a hangover afterwards; why  _ wouldn't _ I want to repeat it? It's  _ Prowl," _ Jazz stressed as he fitted the tower he'd been working on onto the gingerbread-colored base, then examined his work. The temple really was coming together. "Ain’t no one I’d rather get high with.” He even had, a few times, before his interrogation protocols had gotten too agressive, trusted Prowl to guard him while he indulged in something a bit more mind-altering than highgrade. And sometimes more than just guard. “He ain't gonna do anything I don't want him to, no matter what. "

"And?"

Jazz sighed. Slagging matrix and its slagging bearer being too slagging perceptive. "I don't think it's fair to make him lock it down all the time. He compared it to singing, and Soundwave  _ tortures _ me by keeping me from humming when I'm captured. Maybe all I can hear of every song he sings to me is,  _ Let's frag, _ but he should be allowed to use his voice. Or whatever Praxans use to make those delightful chemicals. At least sometimes, since I'm willing." 

Prime's shoulders slumped. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Well that's why you pay me the big bucks, Boss-bot."

Optimus’ smile was a slight crinkling of the platelets around his eyes. "I don't pay you at all."

"Sure you do. IOUs like the rest of the army. Just because there ain't an economy to cash them anymore..."

.

.

.

Jazz wanted to ambush Prowl in their quarters as soon as he returned from patrol, but party preparations waited for no mech. Especially when  _ Jazz _ had to be the responsible adult and keep Bluestreak from covering every available surface in greenery. Granted, he kinda agreed with Blue's reasoning — it was going to be hard to get a real mech-sized Christmas tree, so they'd need somewhere to put all the ornaments — but still! It'd look tacky to wallpaper the rec room with live pine branches. The Christmas stuff was already going to clash horribly with the orange walls and they'd need to deal with that somehow, but Bluestreak's solution was not a good one. 

Instead — and  _ not _ because Bluestreak had the most irresistibly pleading expression Jazz had ever seen — he'd had Blaster find some wreath-making instructions, and had the greenery piled up next to the "gingerbread" houses on what he was now officially calling the Christmas Craft Table. He'd then sent out an  _ Ark _ -wide memo that everyone was to make at least one wreath to add to the decor. Then just to prove he wasn't slacking, he'd made the first one. It had been more difficult than he'd thought it would be, and he'd missed his lover getting back from patrol.

He was glad Prowl wasn't sulking when he got back. Instead Prowl was engrossed in using a tiny laser cutting tool to turn a box of standard 8 ½ x 11 printer paper into thousands of delicate, perfectly symmetrical snowflakes. Jazz was amazed Prowl was managing without a micrograsper, though he did use a pair of tweezers to pick up the snowflake when he was done, and again to retrieve a new sheet of paper.

Prowl couldn't have missed that he was no longer alone, but Jazz still waited until he was done with the one he was working on before speaking. "That's amazing!"

The Praxan ducked his head. "I was hoping to make a peace offering."

"Dunno what you think you did wrong, but I'll take the snowflakes. Those're gorgeous." He'd thought about whether he should add anything like glitter or false snow to the gingerbread temple, but it'd be tacky, given Cybertron didn't have snow — not as Earth did, anyway. These would be perfect, but it was time to put them away. "Got a doctor's verification I'm as in my right mind as I ever am. Still want you. Still want to try things with your pheromones."

"Given your reaction yesterday to a simple greeting, I'm uncertain what else there is to try."

Jazz folded his hands across his bumper. "You ain't really that dense, love. Ain’t even the first time we’ve interfaced with me under the influence. I. WANT. YOU. Chemicals or no." He grinned. "Use those irresistible frag-me signals to sing me a love song, then make love to me all night long."

Prowl groaned. "Don't start singing that."

_ "Sing me a lo~ve song," _ Jazz improvised.  _ "Use your sexy, _ uh,  **_Civetone_ ** _ tones to si~ng me a lo~ve song and make loooove to me all night lo~ng — _ Mrmph!" Prowl silenced Jazz's (admittedly horrible) little song with a kiss. 

Ready for him, and thinking every sexy thought he could think of, Jazz blew a bit of air into Prowl's mouth through his parted lips. Prowl shuddered and returned the gesture, briefly, before pulling away. "Are you sure?"

"Ain't never been so sure of something in my  _ life, _ lover."

Prowl kissed him again and this time when Jazz inhaled his lover's offered breath, he felt warm and tingly. He managed to interrupt the root command for his interrogation protocols. Nope, don't need those here. 

Hmm... He kissed his way across Prowl's lips, then his nose, then his chevron. Prowl shuddered. Desire coiled through Jazz and he wiggled, eager in Prowl's arms. Prowl didn't say anything as he half-led, half-carried his squirmy lover to the bed and allowed them to fall into it. 

Prowl didn't speak, didn't give any directions or state any preferences. He laid there and let his — very drugged — lover do what his own desires willed. And if Prowl's fans and circuits sang his own enjoyment, a silent poetry of scent... Jazz may not have heard the full symphony but he understood enough. 

_ I love you. _

_ Let's frag. _

.

.

.

Jazz was so warm and sated and relaxed, in their bed cuddled up against Prowl's plating and mind, that he didn't actually realize when his lover's pheromones wore off. Frag, that was a great high. And absolutely no hangover! New favorite recreational drug ever!

_ Laughter _ tickled the inside of Jazz's processor, freer and and less inhibited than any chuckle Prowl ever voiced out loud. Jazz smooshed their personalities together and held on tighter, surrounding his lover with how much he'd really, really enjoyed that.

_ I'd say we should bottle that and sell it, but I think I'd prefer having you ALL to myself. _

Prowl only answered with amusement, and the faint suggestion that, since both their energon levels were below thirty-three percent, perhaps it was time to get up. And that Jazz would need to unplug from Prowl's ports to do that. 

Noooo... Jazz snuggled, physically  _ and _ mentally, into his lover. He wasn't ever letting go. They were going to stay here forever. Prowl's laughter bubbled up inside them both again, this time with an inquiry as to whether he was still intoxicated. In answer, Jazz sent his systems' — including his interrogation protocols' — own assessment. He was  _ fine _ and he was  _ not _ going to see Ratchet again!

The vehemence of the thought made Prowl jump, almost dislodging himself and ending up with one of his doorwings tangled in the cords unspooled from Jazz's wrist. Amidst a jangled tumble of apologies from  _ both _ of them, Jazz untangled his lover and unplugged from the ports on Prowl's spinal column.

The jolt from getting tangled up made Jazz's cords ache, but he insisted on massaging Prowl's doorwing first, since it had been his discordant thoughts that had upset their afterglow.

"I didn't see the associated memory," Prowl said quietly once they'd settled again. "Why the sudden animosity towards Ratchet?"

Jazz's engine revved angrily, which made Prowl tilt his head curiously. "He assumed you'd given me that greeting puff to..." he revved again. "I don't even know what he thought. He asked what you'd tried to get me to do, asked if your  _ control _ was faltering. I expect that slag from the twins, but  _ Ratchet!" _

Prowl shoulders hunched and Jazz regretted saying anything, but Prowl didn't let him try and retract the words. "Ratchet worked in the Dead End of Iacon, in one of the clinics frequented by the most destitute. He saw a lot of mechs addicted to all manner of substances, many in the context of mechs using those addictions to control others. He takes the idea that Praxans are capable of effortlessly exerting that sort of control over others as a personal affront."

"Yeah well, I ain't going back to him for this. You ever insist on medical oversight on our berth activities again and I'm going to First Aid, even if it'll make the youngster die of embarrassment. Fragger," Jazz growled, meaning Ratchet. "He was checking my code for pheromone influences, back when we were first courting. Can you believe that?" Jazz thought the breech of medical ethics, however minor, would offend Prowl. But Prowl's shoulders hunched again. "You did know! Did you ask him to?" 

"No. I thought you had," Prowl sounded miserable.

Jazz thought about leaving that alone for all of about three seconds, then he deliberately continued his massage. "So how'd you come to know Ratch was keeping an optic on you, by scanning  _ my," _ Jazz was still offended by that part, "code, when I didn't."

"I thought you had been the one to ask him to do so," Prowl insisted. "If I'd thought for a moment he hadn't even told you he was monitoring your code for my influence, I  _ would _ have told you."

"Believe you," Jazz hummed and felt Prowl relax at the easy acceptance. "Still begs the question of how you knew when he didn't tell me."

"About four decaorns after we began courting, someone — Dogstar, his name was — came to me with supposed proof I was using my pheromones to coerce you." Prowl said quietly. Jazz could feel his reluctance to speak, and as the words registered, Jazz realized this was why Prowl reacted to a perceived accusation — a perceived accusation from  _ Jazz _ — with the sort of fear born of trauma. "He wanted me to use my pheromones to 'help' him with a lover who was being difficult. He showed me the video he'd taken. We were outside your quarters and you were very clearly high on something. Your ports were exposed and you were unspooling one of my cables. I was trying to get us into your quarters before you plugged us."

"Obviously you didn't help the," here Jazz's words failed. There was no insult powerful enough in either Cybertronian or English. He lapsed into a long-dead alien one for an expression of utter foulness, breaking the tension momentarily. Jazz felt a tiny laugh zing through his lover's plating. "I remember the vid. Don't remember what drug I was on —"

"Crystal pesht."

Jazz didn't doubt his lover's memory. Not only did Prowl have a processor for details, but this whole incident had obviously been more traumatic for the Praxan than it had for him. "Yeah that makes sense. We were stationed in Tyger Pax at the time, where pesht is — was legal. Got called to Nightclaw's office for a chat with a Judge Advocate General. He asked about you, yeah, but I got the feeling I was the one in trouble for public intoxication. He asked me a few questions, made me write out a promise not to do it again, then left. Nightclaw followed it up with a lecture about how a Spec Ops agent could never let his guard down, then sent me on a boring-as-slag training mission as punishment, and that was it. For me at least. Guessing there's more to the story on your side of it."

"You guess right. I lied, said I'd think about it, then went to Optimus." Prowl's doorwings drooped and Jazz hugged him from behind. "I knew that there was no way to disprove that I had coerced you with my pheromones, and even if I was believed, the fact that I would interface with someone so clearly intoxicated was damning in itself."

"We'd talked about beforehand," Jazz insisted. "It was my idea."

"But there was no way to prove that," Prowl said quietly, urgently, "and Dogstar said one thing while I said another. Even if you said we had discussed it beforehand when the JAG talked to you, there was no way to prove that I was not exerting influence on you. And by that point, I was used to the idea that I would be guilty until proven innocent when it came to my pheromones — and that there was no way to prove my innocence. I only asked the Prime that he keep the investigation quiet so that the other Praxan refugees would not be tainted by association with me. We — they were already having such trouble fitting in. I spent three orns confined to my quarters when not on duty while a Military Police investigator and the two JAGs gathered evidence, then I was brought before a military tribunal. I thought I was only going to hear a sentencing, but Optimus had me there for the whole proceedings. Your testimony was presented via a recording. Ratchet and Red Alert also presented evidence for my defense. I have never before or since been so personally glad of Red Alert’s insistence on recording everything that goes on in the base. He had a transcript of our discussion about interfacing while you were under the influence of the pesht. The prosecution only had Dogstar's accusation. I was released, and a few orns later, Optimus informed me that Dogstar was convicted of attempted blackmail, making a false accusation, and conspiracy to coerce consent to interface."

Jazz searched out his memory, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember hearing anything about this. Of course if the only mechs involved had been Prime, Ratchet, Red Alert, Prowl, a couple of JAGs and some MPs who'd been chosen for their discretion, it wasn't a surprise this had never made it into the rumor mill. "Makes sense. After giving me that lecture, Nightclaw sent me scouting through the badlands outside Tyger Pax. Was gone over a decaorn. By the time I got back, you'd been released." He poked at some truly ancient memory files. "You were a bit skittish, but I thought that maybe the rumors had been more vicious than usual while I was gone."

"As much as I had been grateful someone could prove I had not coerced you, I thought you'd asked Ratchet to double check on me. And even though the Prime had kept it quiet as I had requested, I could not imagine that you as the supposed victim had not been informed of what was going on." Prowl's doorwings drooped further. "I thought you had requested the mission to escape from me."

"Yeah. That makes sense." Jazz hugged Prowl again, this time pulling them both over to lay on the berth again, then wiggling until they were face to face. Thinking as hard as he could about sympathy and love, he blew tiny little breaths across his lover's fingertips, then chevron, then into a kiss. Prowl's optics closed and his vents evened out as whatever Jazz was doing managed to calm him. "This sounds like the sort of thing I should have been told too, but..." Jazz thought about Prime's early admission that he hadn't wanted to interfere in their growing relationship. He was less inclined to believe Prime had had any sort of true suspicion or malicious intent. "I'll ask him, next time I get the chance."

"I have a question now," Prowl said quietly.

"Shoot."

"Why didn't you ask for medical oversight? I personally observed at least five different individuals warn you I could subvert your will, and urge you to be cautious. You laughed off the warnings. After the tribunal, I thought that the reason you were so confident was because you already had Ratchet verifying that I was not influencing you. But, it seems you never did anything with those warnings. Why not?"

It was Jazz's turn to sink into painful memories while Prowl made an apologetic sound and held him close. "I'm Polyhexian. Not a Poly framed mech built in Iacon. Strait up sparked in Polyhex. Performer.” Prowl already knew that; it was this next part Jazz hadn’t talked about much since it had happened. “Was a draft dodger long before the Decepticons took over the city, but once they did, it was harder and harder to evade getting pulled off the street and pressed into service. Among other things. So I joined one of the last waves of refugees to escape before the entire equatorial band was turned into a battlefield. Got to Autobot territory — Altihex — and thought I was finally safe, only to nearly be capped on suspicion of being a Decepticon spy. Wasn't, but I got used to being called a traitor, spy, exhibitionist,  _ vermin, _ all sorts of other things, just because of my frame type.

"So when I started hearing what sounded like the same tune, different lyrics, about Praxans, I  _ chose _ not to believe any of it. Sounds stupid, now." Jazz squeezed his lover tighter, then grinned. "If I'd asked you then what was true and what was complete slag, I wouldn't have waited until we got to Earth to ask to kiss you." Prowl gave a reserved little laugh, relief making him relax. "But honestly, I didn't because I didn't want you to think I was putting any credit to those rumors by bringing them up with you. I just chose not to believe a glyph. It died down with you eventually, just like it had with me, and I put it out of my mind. Forgot even."

"I love you," was Prowl's response.

Which made Jazz feel warm and fuzzy in a way that had nothing at all to do with pheromones.

"So, in the interest of asking you — not accusing you! — about what others are saying," Jazz said with a grin. "Ratch said you could make me act normal, that true? Could be useful, given how long it takes for your," he showed teeth,  _ "chemical attraction _ to clear out of my systems. Being able to fight, on short notice if needed, would be pretty handy." Jazz would never take any sort of drug or get drunk while on duty, but there were so few of them here on Earth, and Decepticons were unpredictable little bastards.

"I doubt it," Prowl said, with only a flicker of worry at the beginning of Jazz's question, which smoothed out into his lover's beautiful tactical focus by the time Jazz had finished speaking. "I never heard a credible report in Praxus of a foreigner acting in any way other than drugged while under the influence. But even if it were possible, I wouldn't chance it. My pheromones may not come with the physical impairment other intoxicants do, but your judgement is definitely impaired. I would not send you to battle like that." He was silent a moment longer, then, "I could probably order you to reactivate your anti-interrogation and combat protocols, forcing you to clear them out faster."

"Hmmm... Sounds like a plan," Jazz hugged Prowl tighter. "Course, you're always the mech with a plan, ain't you? Me? I'm more for coming up with games."  _ Here fishy-fishy... _

"What sort of games are you thinking of now?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MIND THE TAGS.

Jazz backed up as the Praxan advanced, hips swaying in a way that made the younger mech's spark beat strangely in his chest.

"Are you afraid of me?" Prowl whispered, his voice sending strange and pleasant and disturbing tingles up Jazz's spinal struts.

"No~o." Jazz wished he sounded more certain. Some hotshot saboteur! But Jazz didn't feel like a hotshot anything right now. Just scared little Jazz. A quivering little glitch mouse cornered by one very playful cybercat.

"Good, good," the Praxan coaxed. He stepped in close, closer than was proper, close enough that Jazz could feel the faint breeze from his fans and his mind went fuzzy while he stumbled away again, barely catching himself on a tinsel-festooned table. It was on the tip of his tongue to agree to whatever Prowl wanted, strange shivery tingles and all, when the Praxan spoke up again. "Are you done decorating for the Christmas party?"

"Almost," Jazz answered, taking refuge in that. He had a job to do! He couldn't leave before everything was ready! There were going to be human dignitaries visiting to observe the Autobots' first Christmas awake on Earth! Jazz edged around the table, opening his mouth to tell Prowl to go away and let him work — "You wanna help?"

Fra-frell. _Frell_ because _frag_ wasn't a word a scared, virginal little Jazz would feel comfortable thinking... Frell. Frell. Frell.

Prowl stalked around the table after Jazz. "Hmmm... Not particularly."

Jazz scrambled away. "Then you gotta let me work!"

"Ja~zz," Prowl called out, and Jazz felt his mind go fuzzy again. It really was a bit like being drugged. Stunned, Jazz stopped for one fatal moment, staring slack-jawed at gleaming black and white doorwings. Only the last dregs of Jazz's anti-interrogation protocols were working, noting the danger he was potentially in, and kept him backing away from Prowl. The rest of him was ready to succumb. Step by step, like a dance.

A dance brought to an abrupt halt by a hard bump into the mess hall's wall. Jazz yelped. Cornered, drugged... Survival protocols drew a knife.

"You don't really need a knife, Jazz," Prowl coaxed, stepping closer than was safe, and Jazz's world went from fuzzy to sharply focused. All Jazz could see was blue optics. _Prowl_ filled his every sense. His anti-interrogation protocols gave up with a spat of harsh errors scrolling unseen across his visor. Firewalls activated in a last ditch effort to protect his processor. "Just give it to me."

Dreamlike, Jazz did so.

"Good," Prowl purred. "Very good. Now a kiss."

Vaguely Jazz managed to remember that he was supposed to resist this, that he was supposed to be frightened. Play-frightened. But how could he be? Prowl was... Prowl Was. "Nuuuh..."

"It's alright, Jazz, beautiful... It's just a kiss. Under the mistletoe, even."

 _Had_ he already put up the mistletoe? Jazz couldn't remember. He started to look up to check, only for his chin to be caught by Prowl. Instead he looked at Prowl's lips. A kiss. Tingles and shivers went through him. Desire. Yes. A kiss.

Possessively, Prowl licked his lips, Jazz's visor riveted to the motion. "Suuuure."

Prowl's lips brushed Jazz's. He breathed directly into Jazz's mouth, the warmth spreading _heat_ instantly through his systems. With a tiny, helpless cry, Jazz's systems succumbed entirely to the drug and he blacked out.

.

.

.

Jazz woke feeling fuzzy and calm. Arousal curled through his circuits, but it wasn't an insistent burn. Just the background noise to a mellow languidness. He snuggled into the plating beneath him and took a deep in-vent. Warmth spread through his circuits. Any thought he might have had about moving evaporated like smoke. Why would he want to move? There was no reason to move.

Except that it was cold, with each puff of heated air from his vents turning to steam in the brisk December night. That could be a reason to move. Fortunately there was a delightfully warm lap beneath him he could snuggle into. Snuggle. Snuggle. Warm… Jazz purred as the mech’s heat banished the worst of the chills.

It was like the best parts of being over-energized or on circuit boosters, but without any of the downsides. Circuit boosters had horrific hangovers and could cause memory loss. Syk came with sometimes fun, but more often, as the war went on, _terrifying_ hallucinations. Jazz had never overdosed on either, but he knew it could easily be fatal. And the lag between deciding to move and actually moving that came with being moderately over-energized was fun, but Jazz could never tell when he was about to cross the threshold into being unable to move at all. Jazz could move right now; he just had no reason to. Everything was wonderful and warm and comfortable. And while he was not a mech given to social anxiety, he was free from those cares he did have. He wasn’t an officer people were bringing problems too. He wasn’t graceful, cool, calm, and collected. He wasn’t their strength, their morale, their good cheer.

He was just Prowl’s.

"Are you awake now, Jazz?"

Was he awake? "Nuuuuh?"

A breath of Prowl's laughter sent Jazz giggling briefly before he was once again subsumed by his lover's calm. "Open your optics."

Were his optics closed? They must have been because, helpless to resist, his optics fluttered open. A multitude expanse of stars spread out above him, and Jazz felt like he could just float off into them. "Preeeetyy"

Prowl chuckled again, petting Jazz gently. "You're still stoned out of your processor."

"Yyyyyyyy..." He leaned into Prowl's hand, purring.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to black you out earlier." Jazz just purred and snuggled harder. "I didn't want us to interface with you in that condition, so we're waiting for it to wear off."

"Kaaaaaay..." He really thought he wouldn't mind if they interfaced — would really like that, in fact. Desire still crawled through his circuits. But he really couldn’t contradict Prowl, and he was feeling just too mellow to interface anyway. "Shiiing!" He managed.

"I'm _not_ going to dose you again. I already had to make a... lullaby, I guess you'd call it, to get you calm enough to wait it out." Mrrr? "I'm not going to stop you from singing, though."

Jazz had just enough presence of mind to notice the funny way of phrasing it. He... Of course he wanted to sing. Jazz always wanted to sing. Though that would be an effort, and he didn't have any particular reason to.

But he didn't have any reason _not_ to.

_"Oooooh~ bea~uti~fuul starrrrrr ov Beth~le~something! Shiiiiiiiinee~ng through shaaado~ows dim~med!"_

Another puff of Prowl's laughter interrupted Jazz's song with a fit of contagious giggles. "Not your best composition, love."

Did that mean Prowl didn't like it? Mrr?

"Not at all. I like your voice... even when you're caroling drunkenly to the night."

"..oooot to the ni~i~ght." Jazz caroled. Drunkenly. "For you!"

"You can't help but say that right now, Jazz."

"Still trrrruuuu!"

_Gii~ving the li~ife forrrr tho~se whooooo lo~ng have go~o~ne! Gui~di~ing the wiiiiise me~n o~n their waaaay!_

_._

.

.

"Ja~zz," Jazz shivered at the teasing note of the voice. Resuming their game, Prowl was once again playing the aggressive seductor while Jazz played the shy, nervous virgin. He'd managed to escape outside, but now that they were alone, he had to use all his skills to avoid his stalker. If he let Prowl close, he'd be caught. "Come out, beautiful. There's no need to be shy."

True, this wasn't _quite_ how Prowl and Jazz’s game was supposed to be played. Plain hide and seek was more Mirage and Hound’s thing, but this impromptu shift from social evasion to physical stealth was proving extremely fun for Jazz. He could hear the amusement in his lover's voice as well. They’d have to rethink doing this more often.

Even with a Praxan's advanced sensor suite, in a contest of stealth Jazz could have evaded Prowl indefinitely. He could have slipped away, so quiet that all Prowl’s scans and searches would have been fruitless. But escape wasn't what was _really_ on Jazz's mind. He just wanted to make things difficult.

"Ja~zz," Prowl called again.

The feeling of being _hunted_ was familiar and could have been disturbing, but Prowl kept calling. This game wasn’t like trying to evade Ravage and Soundwave, who hunted Jazz in perfect silence; it wouldn’t trigger combat protocols and threat routines. Yet there was the excitement, the thrill of playing at something that was deadly serious.

Not an easy game; Prowl's processor made the task far from easy. It was _safe_ to play hide and seek with Prowl, but searching grids, taking in the data from his doorwings, then correlating and compiling it into usable conclusions was what Prowl _did._ If there was ever a mech who had been _designed_ to find Jazz, it was Prowl.

Silent footsteps brought Jazz around his lover. He crouched, watching Prowl pace out his search grid. In a moment he would turn and he'd spot Jazz, who'd been careless enough to allow himself to be cornered in a ravine that usually offered a multitude of escape routes, but was right now blocked by snow.

Jazz crouched. Wet fluffy snow stuck to his fingers, and he got an idea.

With a wet _thrr-splat!_ Jazz's snowball hit Prowl's doorwing. Prowl staggered forward; Jazz took his chance and bolted past him.

He _almost_ escaped, turning the corner of the ravine. But Prowl's returning snowball hit him, dead-on. It had been thrown with Prowl's characteristic accuracy. Jazz stumbled, slipped, and fell into a snowbank.

He flipped himself over and scrambled back to his feet.

Or… tried to. Only to realize he'd been caught. Prowl had a hold of his foot. Jazz wiggled to escape, but too late — Prowl sent a breath from his fans over the chemosensors next to his tire.

Escape? Why would he want to escape? Jazz relaxed into the snow. "Mrr?"

"Good, Jazz, beautiful. See?" Prowl crooned, crawling over Jazz's relaxed frame, rubbing his plating against Jazz's and settling over him. "That wasn't difficult at all."

Pressed into the snow by his lover's weight, Jazz purred agreement. Nooo... Not difficult. Fuzzy warmth spread through his circuits in a way his systems were rapidly coming to recognize as caused by Prowl alone. Fuzzy, warm, and _safe_.

"No firewalls, beautiful. I'm going to take you now and I don't want you fighting me." Prowl purred possessively, running his hand over Jazz's spinal struts.

Obligingly, helpless to resist had he even wanted to, Jazz lowered his firewalls and opened the six interfacing ports along his spinal struts under Prowl's hand. Jazz shivered in arousal and desire as Prowl fingered his ports. Snow melted to water rapidly beneath them, leaving Jazz writhing on the rock and sand of the volcano.

"Prowl!" he gasped.

"Yes, beautiful?" Prowl didn't wait for his lover to tell him what he wanted. It didn’t matter. There was only one thing Jazz _could_ want right now: Prowl. "Mine," he growled lightly, sending a breath of air over those delicate ports. “And right now I think I should punish you for running from me like that.”

Jazz arched into his lover, crying in pleasure, as Prowl teased him with fingers and delicate puffs of air until he was a whimpering, needy, quivering mess of sparks and wires. Jazz begged. Only _then_ did Jazz feel the snug, almost-too-large prongs of Prowl’s first connector plug, spooled teasingly from his wrist, snick gently into the corresponding port.

He howled as Prowl’s personality battered against his and overload — his _first_ overload — took him.

.

.

.

"You're getting better, beautiful," Prowl said, quiet and proud.

At the praise, Jazz felt a warm flush of pleasure through his circuits. Only for Smokescreen's braying laugh and Bluestreak's giggles to burst his bubble of accomplishment. Prowl glared across the table at his frame-kin.

Christmas was drawing near, but the Autobots' decorating efforts continued at an unhurried pace. Everything was coming together. Jazz had convinced Prowl to make more paper snowflakes. Bluestreak was across from them at the Craft Table showing Smokescreen how to make a pine bough wreath. Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Ratchet had been pressed into service at the other end of the table, making popcorn garlands along with the other mechs with micro-graspers built into their fingers. Between the medics and the wreath-makers, Sunstreaker was concentrating on painting the shipment of custom porcelain ornaments that had arrived that morning. Skyfire and Blaster were working on the gingerbread Temple of Primus.

There were other Autobots at other tables doing other tasks too. Inferno, Hotspot and Prime had gone to get the tree. As such, there were more Autobots in here helping than usual, eager to see the thing's arrival, and if the tree stand Grapple and Hoist had made would work. Or help with the lights, which were standing ready to be strung up on it. Or, hopefully, be chosen as the one to put the star on the top. (They didn’t know that Jazz had already chosen Mirage for that honor; it’d do the spy good to come out of hiding and be given some positive attention.)

Jazz flitted around the room stinging up garlands of copper and tin rings and boughs of holly and glittering strings of beads, accenting them with bows and larger than life candy-canes. And lights. Mustn't forget the lights. Jazz's idea for disguising the orange walls was to use colored Christmas lights all around the room, then, on the big day, use those in lieu of the rec room's normal lighting, so the orange walls just would be lost in the dark. Every so often, Jazz would come over, drape himself over his lover, and send a hopeful puff of air over his lover's proffered hand. Which is what he'd done just now, and two of the three Praxans were laughing at him.

Bluestreak just continued to giggle. Smokescreen ignored Prowl's ire to lean forward and say, "It's cute you're trying, Jazz. Prowl thinks you're absolutely adorable." Prowl's optics narrowed. "But whatever you're trying to say, you mostly just smell eager for approval."

Jazz poked Prowl. "You said you'd help me with this!"

"You _are_ getting better," Prowl insisted. "You are no longer adding possessive or lustful scents to the mix. You just aren't saying what you want to say yet."

"You said you'd help," Jazz repeated.

"Our scents are not something even Praxans have complete conscious control over." Prowl said, which he'd said when Jazz had first told him he wanted to learn to use his own, much weaker pheromones to communicate with Prowl. "As such I can only tell you when you're getting better, rather than provide any sort of true instructions."

Jazz’s visor glinted with determination. He summoned every lustful, possessive thought he could, let those thoughts be colored by _amusement_ and _revenge,_ then licked his lover's chevron and the dense collection of sensors — including chemosensors — there.

Prowl's doorwings flared in surprise and shock, and the laser scalpel skidded. It cut a haphazard line through the snowflake he was making, ruining it. Smokescreen and Bluestreak howled in laughter.

At the other end of the table, Ratchet scowled.

Jazz chuckled. "Take this seriously, and give me useful feedback, lover," he whispered in Prowl's audio sensors. "Or I'll start licking your ports."

Prowl's engine revved audibly, though he was otherwise perfectly composed as he disposed of the ruined snowflake and retrieved another sheet of paper to begin again. "I will," he promised.

Jazz sent a grin to the other two Praxans. "You two'll keep him honest?'

"Yes sir!" Bluestreak said with a giggle; Smokescreen just snorted as he tied the next pine bough into his — rather sad, really — wreath.

Jazz gave Prowl a cheerful farewell kiss and breath that he knew didn't say anything at all, except for maybe how happy he was right now, then flitted away to tape some of Prowl's snowflakes flat on the walls near the garlands where — being white, rather than orange — they'd catch the lights intertwined in the garlands.

Just buzzing with happiness, he started humming a jaunty Christmas tune, if one that was more than a bit melancholy for the Autobots. A moment later Blaster had found the song and was playing it from his speakers:

_Christmas time's a coming, Christmas time's a coming_

_Christmas time's a coming and I know I'm going home_

_Snowflakes are falling, my old home's a calling_

_Tall pines are humming, Christmas time's a coming_

.

.

.

The game was for Prowl to catch Jazz — who would always be shy and virginal — as many times as possible before midnight on Christmas Eve. They did tone it down a bit in deference to President Regan and the other human dignitaries attending the Autobots' first Christmas on Earth. Sparkplug, being more familiar with how Prowl and Jazz normally acted, was more observant.

"Hey Jazz!"

Jazz pulled himself from where he was eavesdropping on Bumblebee, who was telling the French Ambassador and his family — Jazz had made sure everyone had the proper language packets to converse in everyone's native language, or play translator if it was needed — about that one time with the one thing that Sideswipe was going to be very upset to learn Bee had told a bunch of humans about. He went over to Sparkplug and offered his hand. Unlike the majority of humans attending, who tried to stick to the tabletops, Sparkplug had no hesitation about clambering up onto Jazz's hand to talk to him.

"What's up?"

"You and Prowl are acting a bit strange," Sparkplug said. "Is everything okay?"

Jazz twirled through a one-sided waltz-step while Sparkplug hung on, making their way to the edge of the crowd where they'd have a tiny bit of privacy. Across the room, trapped in a conversation with the Secretary of Defense, Prowl's optics nevertheless followed Jazz's movements, glowing with avarice. Feeling the weight of his lover's gaze, Jazz added a bit of a hip-wiggle that may, or may not, have been an entirely unconscious flirtation. Sparkplug eyes caught sight of Prowl — he was almost better as reading Autobot emotions than some Autobots — and frowned when Prowl's greedy, possessive look increased minutely in intensity.

"Are you alright?" Sparkplug asked again once they had a modicum of privacy. Jazz thought rapidly about whether he should equate interfacing with sex to the humans. The Autobots, of course, considered it nearly the same thing just on social bonding aspects (which was the only aspects that mattered to the Autobots, given they didn’t procreate through interfacing), but humans could be funny.

Sparkplug and his son were in and out of the _Ark_ so much they practically lived there. They were going to see things eventually.

"Right as rain," Jazz almost sang. "Pretty sure, given as you've got a grown kid and all, I don't need to give you the birds and bees talk. If you're curious about the mechanics for transformers, get Ratchet to explain them to you later."

Sparkplug looked poleaxed, but managed to come out of it even more concerned. "What's the Autobot policy on harassment?"

"Stricter than humans', but ain't applicable here," Jazz assured. "Sufficed to say, when a race car and a firetruck love each other very much... Well, mostly the race car drives circles around his partner until the firetruck fights him off with his firehose." Sparkplug let out a surprised guffaw and Jazz grinned. "That ain't a euphemism, by the way. That's just how we work. We're wired to do certain things. Prime’s a cargo hauler; Blaster’s a signal receiver. It affects what we enjoy doing, how we want to flirt, what’s attractive and fun, and what’s boring or even hurtful. Part of finding the right partner is finding one with compatible desires. So when a pursuit vehicle loves a stealth specialist... well. I like being chased, and he likes doing the chasing." Hound and Mirage were the same way. Though they tended more towards games of hide and seek, with Mirage's invisibility cloak and Hound's tracking equipment, than Prowl and Jazz’s elaborate games of roleplay and social pursuit. "I'm fine. Don't have to worry about me."

"Alright, now that I've got the image of of you and Prowl together burned into my brain, I think I need some eggnog." Both of them chuckled. That went better than Jazz had expected. Sure, they'd already had the conversation about the Autobots not really being ‘male'. Cybertronians had frametype classifications, not ‘genders’. Masculinity was what Sparkplug and Spike had assumed when they’d first encountered the giant alien robots from outer space. The Autobots had just gone with it at the time, and kept the pronouns because that was easier than trying to rewrite human languages to fit a fundamentally alien concept. Jazz didn’t think Sparkplug was going to have an issue with two non-gendered mechs who answered to male pronouns being together, but this was the first time they’d discussed the Autobots' “sexual” habits. There was no way to really be sure how someone would react to things they considered abnormal until they were faced with it (as Ratchet’s unexpected bias against Praxans had proven). Sad and anger-making, but there was not much Jazz could do, especially in the case of human prejudices.

Sparkplug seemed to be taking the idea that Jazz and Prowl were together extremely well. "Just... If you or anyone else does need help with harassment… Well, I don't know what I could do, but I'll do what I can."

"You're a good mech," Jazz said.

"Not a mech. And I _really_ need some eggnog now." Sparkplug pointed towards the gingerbread temple of Primus, outside of which the humans' buffet table was set up. "Mush!"

Playfully Jazz barked as he obeyed.

.

.

.

"You've been avoiding me all night," Prowl purred as he silently stepped up to Jazz, in the "secret" sight-shadow of the huge Christmas tree where mechs could leave gifts without being seen doing so.

Jazz let out a little yelp of surprise. He hadn't even heard the mech there!

"Oh, hey, Prowl," Jazz said, trying to suppress the quaver in his voice. Heat — heat that had nothing to do with pheromones — curled and coiled in his circuits, warmed the plating along his spine. Caught. "I, ah," he searched for so an escape. Nothing really presented itself. As the older, or quieter, partygoers — mechs and humans alike — had drifted off, Blaster had shifted the soundtrack to some real party music. Knots of humans and mechs danced, talked, and laughed loudly. "I gotta go help Blaster with the music!" Jazz finally let out in a nervous rush, sidling away from the Praxan tactician.

Who neatly sidestepped to block Jazz's escape and herded him deeper into the sight-shadow, away from other mech's optics. Drat!

"Blaster's fine," Prowl murmured. And he was right; Blaster, the traitor, was giving Jazz a thumbs-up signal before he disappeared behind the thick pine branches as Prowl herded Jazz fully out of sight. Displeased with _his_ prize looking at another, Prowl reached out and firmly, almost harshly, grasped Jazz's chin and directed his gaze to Prowl's. Jazz squeaked, tried to pull away, but Prowl's fingers tightened, holding firm. "Why have you been avoiding me, beautiful?"

"You make me nervous," Jazz whispered, well, _nervously._ "I feel strange when you talk to me."

Possessiveness and something _else,_ something that looked _hungry_ to Jazz, settled into Prowl's optics with a smirk. "Beautiful. There's nothing to be nervous of." Still holding Jazz's chin so he couldn't pull away, Prowl brushed his lips over Jazz's, there and gone like the beat of a butterfly's wings. "It feels good, doesn't it?"

Mutely, Jazz could only nod.

"I can make it feel better, beautiful. Is that what you want?" Prowl shifted his grip from Jazz's chin to cupping the back of his helm and gave him another butterfly kiss. "Or would you like to keep running? Because I will chase you from one end of the galaxy to the other," Jazz felt how the thought made Prowl's frame heat up; he _liked_ the thought of chasing Jazz, "but I've chased you enough for the night, beautiful. I'd much rather _have_ you."

Suddenly alarmed, Jazz tried harder to pull away, but Prowl crushed their mouths together in a kiss entirely unlike his others. Jazz struggled, but _warmth_ spread through his circuits like a fire, driving out the desire to flee. Vaguely Jazz recognized that Prowl couldn't have used very much of his pheromones at all. There were still other people nearby, though no one close enough to immediately scent them. But it was enough to keep Jazz from escaping. Prowl wasn't letting his prize escape after a chase that had begun this morning and ended only a hair before midnight. So a low dose, just to keep Jazz compliant and _here._ Jazz still felt nervous, shy, and very, very trapped. He just couldn't quite turn any of his mental commands to run, flee, escape into action.

"Much better, pet." Prowl murmured. He stroked his hand over the covers on Jazz's spinal ports. "Mine now. _Mine._ Merry Christmas to me. " Another kiss, another bit of Jazz's will to resist stolen. "And Merry Christmas to you, pet. I've got a gift for you too." Prowl's fingers stroked roughly against Jazz's spinal struts and the slightly smaller mech arched into the touch with a cry. "You'll like it, I promise."

"...Kay."

Prowl led Jazz by the hand out from behind the tree and through the party. Mechs who bothered notice that they were leaving the party pinged various messages containing lewd suggestions, congratulations, and joking inquiries as to whether they should expect to see either of them tomorrow — later today, now — to open presents. The even fewer who noticed Jazz was tipsy assumed he'd been hitting the highgrade, like every other mech had been.

As soon as they were out in the deserted hallway, Prowl roughly pushed Jazz against the wall and muffled his cry of surprise and alarm with a kiss that would have been bruising if Jazz had been made of something that could bruise. The last of Jazz's resistance melted away.

 **_"Mine,"_ ** Prowl growled.

Yes. Prowl's.

Fans spinning, Jazz waited placidly.

Prowl shuddered. "As much as I want to take you right here in the hallway... Come. Let's find a berth."

Mrr. Yes, Prowl. Shy and nervous, but unable to resist, Jazz followed.

Prowl’s grip on Jazz’s wrist was tight, just shy of crushing, as he pulled Jazz through the darkened corridors of the _Ark._ Jazz wiggled his arm a bit, trying to get him to loosen the not- _quite_ -painful hold.

“What’s the matter, pet?”

“Too tight,” Jazz said. Prowl’s _hungry_ look made Jazz nervous and excited and even a bit afraid, but still he didn’t resist. _Eager_ for something he didn’t quite understand. “Please. Prowl, you’re holding me too tight.”

Something softened in Prowl’s gaze a bit, his fingers gentled. “I’m sorry, Jazz. Beautiful. I am,” then the flinty hardness was back; the _predator_ was back, “just eager for my gift, and to give you yours.”

Jazz tried to respond to that, but was cut off by Prowl drawing to a halt, and quickly punching a keycode into the pad next to the door. Then Jazz, normally so graceful, was stumbling through the dark as Prowl half pulled, half shoved Jazz into the room. He whirled to face Prowl. Whatever he’d done earlier to sap Jazz of his resistance must be wearing off, or Prowl hadn’t used very much, because clarity, a realization of how much danger he was potentially in, what Prowl could do — what Prowl _wanted_ to do — flooded Jazz’s cortex. He backed away from Prowl, deeper in the gloom.

The door locked with an ominous _click._ Prowl’s optics found Jazz’s glowing visor unerringly in the dark. “Nowhere to run, pet.” He advanced and Jazz just backed away, still partially enthralled. He stopped before he backed into the large berth, the thought of being there with Prowl more frightening than the reality of Prowl alone. Prowl’s hand cupped Jazz’s cheek gently, then he hand-cradled the back of his helm. Visor locked to Prowl’s optics, he nevertheless jerked to avoid Praxan’s kiss, to avoid being dosed again with whatever that was.

Prowl chuckled. “That won’t work for long, pet. My breath is only where the drug is expelled in the highest concentrations.” He kissed Jazz’s helm gently on the helm ridge between his sensor horns, then took a deep breath of the scent of heated metal and ozone and _Jazz_ clinging to the metal. “Every one of my vents releases the pheromones into the air. Every time I touch you, some is transferred to your plating. You’re picking it up with every one of your sensors, not just those in your mouth.” Pointedly Prowl’s thumb brushed over Jazz’s sensor horn, sending static across his vision. Then again. Jazz whimpered, leaning into the touch even as he felt the drug take effect through the contact. “Just being locked in the same room with me… You’ll succumb eventually. Soon even.”

This time when Prowl leaned in for another bruising kiss, Jazz didn’t jerk away. _Warmth_ and _desire_ and a distinct lack of will to resist in any way spread through his vents and wires and limbs. He felt heavy and blank and _hungry_ — but not hungry for energon; for more of Prowl’s fingers and kisses and even for more of the drug. Hungry for that strange, frightening thing Prowl wanted from him.

 _”Mine,”_ Prowl growled.

“Yours,” Jazz whispered back.

Prowl groaned, _pleasure_ dancing through his frame as visible sparks. He kissed Jazz again, plundering his mouth possessively, running his tongue over Jazz’s; this time Jazz, uncoordinated and sloppy, kissed back. Prowl broke the kiss with a groan and a shudder.

Jazz tried to apologize, but Prowl roughly shoved him into the berth. Jazz landed in an ungainly sprawl. He tried to push himself to his knees —

Prowl’s weight came down on top of him, straddling his hips, an arm pushing down on Jazz’s shoulders, pinning him to the berth. Jazz gasped, fear and pleasure and drugged arousal sending sparks of his own skittering across his plating. Venting ragged, Prowl leaned down to breath in the scents of copper and rubber and electricity, groaning with each intake of his fans. Jazz gasped and arched into each breath of air along his shoulders and neck.

“Primus Jazz, beautiful... _pet_ … Primus… You smell just like I’d imagined you would. Like I’d _dreamed_ you would.” Prowl took in another ragged breath. “I can’t wait anymore. I’m going to _take_ you now.”

Prowl licked the edge of cover over Jazz’s topmost data plug. Shivering and aroused and already _so_ close to overload, the panel couldn’t have resisted even if Jazz had any will to. Prowl got his first look at his pet’s data port and he stilled, surprise taking him for just a second —

Then he broke character and laughed. “Jazz, you — !”

Smokescreen’s merciless teasing while the red and blue Praxan helped him with the first aid patches Jazz had swiped from medbay, and the constant, low-grade, damnably arousing _itch_ he’d endured all day were all of a sudden _completely and entirely worth it._

Prowl’s fingers traced over the oversensitized circuits around the port, making Jazz squirm eagerly. “I can’t believe you…” with a rattle of plating, he shook off his surprise and the character of the possessive fragger who’d finally caught his prey settled back over him. “Merry Christmas to me,” he murmured. “Still sealed… I’m surprised. Beautiful little tramp like you, I thought someone else would have taken all your seals.” He hummed toying with the covered port. Jazz gasped. “Do you still have all your seals, pet? Do you still have them _all?”_

Jazz's whine affirmative was cut off by Prowl roughly raking his hand over the full length of his prey’s spinal struts. Jazz arched off the bed and squirmed under Prowl’s arm still pinning him down. One by one, each of the other port-covers slid open under the rough-pleasurable treatment. Prowl hummed in satisfaction, desire dripping from the sound.

“All of them. I’m the _first_ to have you.” Prowl’s voice was reverent and hoarse, deepened with his own _near-overload._ “On second thoughts, I’m not surprised. You are very canny prey. A satisfying chase.” He blew air over the covered port, still sensitive even under the first aid patch. “The perfect prize at the end. A prize only I could claim.”

Jazz whined again, only for it to crescendo into a pure, jewel-toned scream as Prowl ripped away the seal and roughly impaled the port beneath with a three-pronged plug slightly too large for it.

“That’s it, Jazz. Sing for me."

As the scream died from his throat, Jazz panted heavily, trying to cool. Sparks danced over both their frames in an almost constant flicker-flare, overload held back only by will. Prowl’s will. He’d ripped through the rudimentary firewalls of a virgin who’d never even had a medic’s help in constructing a code to protect his mind. Prowl’s personality and immense will pressed against Jazz’s, crushing him in his own processor. Everything he was laid bare against the predator who’d caught him.

Jazz shifted, mind and body, uselessly trying to make himself comfortable with his port and mind stretched wide open to accommodate Prowl’s invasion.

Then Prowl did something, stroked over Jazz’s code with fingers made of intent, and Jazz wailed, suddenly overcome by a spike of pleasure. Breakers tried to trip, to release the pent up energy, but Prowl ruthlessly held them and Jazz’s wail of pleasure warbled into a scream again.

“Not yet,” Prowl’s hoarse voice said, and Jazz couldn’t tell if he was hearing it in his audios or his mind. The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. _Prowl_ was everywhere at once. “I want _all_ of you.”

And Prowl ripped away the second seal, impaling Jazz on the prongs of a second too-large plug spooled from his wrist. Jazz screamed again, this time hitting his crescendo in pure pleasure as the new surge of Prowl’s personality played him like a favorite instrument. Code and hacks and raw _desire_ turning Jazz’s synapses into _pleasure…_ Only for him to trail off into pained whimpers as electricity built in both their frames and was kept from tipping, breaking, cascading into overload.

Again and again, Prowl repeated it, ripping away his protection and filling him utterly, until even _Prowl_ faded away for Jazz. Sight blacked out. Sound dimmed. He was simultaneously trapped in a frame melting around him and escaped from it. It was a spark. It was just a writhing creature of electricity and pleasure and pain. A small writhing thing that existed to feed another that was on him, in him, through him. A thing that owned it and drank in every bit of pleasure and pain and energy it could make.

And when the spark thought the possessive, hungry thing would take too much of it and kill it—

The breakers tripped. Overload.

.

.

.

Jazz woke to ping of his internal alarm — Christmas morning! Presents! — and the sulky complaints of his anti-interrogation software’s error reports. Someone was accessing them, and even with authorization, that code disliked being accessed by others. Prowl was one of six people authorized to access those protocols who had been written right into the code and whom even Jazz couldn't remove from the authorized list without uninstalling and rewriting the code itself. Of those six, only two mechs on that list were still alive, but anti-interrogation protocols were twitchy and paranoid and didn't have to submit even to authorized access quietly. Jazz shifted, groaned, and cleared out the error reports the software had generated. They'd been low priority alerts that his systems were being accessed by an authorized individual, and had been soundly ignored in favor of much needed recharge.

As his HUD cleared, Jazz realized it was his diagnostics — including the specialized diagnostics from his anti-interrogation software that monitored his intoxication levels and tracked damage to his code — that Prowl had accessed. His lover was still in recharge himself, but Jazz accessed his own diagnostics and found himself momentarily caught up in the loop of Prowl's tactical systems monitoring Jazz's status as a high-priority calculation that continued even in his recharge. Jazz chuckled.

He stretched, still held in Prowl's arms, and felt Prowl's plugs still filling all his primary dataports and the berth's power cable plugged into his medical port. Oooh yeah... Jazz still felt physically _filled_ and his ports were sore, but it was the good sort of sore. Prowl's sleeping personality puttered away alongside, _inside,_ his own. Stretched and full of his sleeping lover.

He debated if he should just allow that siren's song of Prowl sleeping within him to lure him back to recharge, or if he should cancel the constant run of his diagnostics, which would wake Prowl immediately, and get them up and out to the rec room where the Autobots were going to be opening presents soon if they weren't alrea—

"UP!" Bluestreak called, pounding loudly on the door. Prowl jerked awake, combat protocols spinning on before his conscious systems were aware enough to register the lack of threat. Jazz's access to his lover's systems was as deep as Prowl's access to his; Jazz halted Prowl's programmed reaction to spring from the bed, gun already out, loaded, and tactical systems looking for a target, and soothed those combat protocols back into quiescence. After that initial twitch, Prowl blinked awake placidly, barely aware he'd been surprised from recharge at all. "TIME FOR PRESENTS!"

Processor still muzzy, Prowl nevertheless checked Jazz's diagnostics and his tactical system's evaluation of Jazz's condition first.

"M'fine, lover," Jazz murmured in support of his diagnostics' report. "Didn't hurt me at all. Just a bit sore."

It was the truth. Ripping off the first aid patches had been a painful shock to such delicate components as the circuits and struts around his data ports, but hadn't done any damage. Not like actually breaking a mech's seals, which did register as damage until a mech's systems normalized to the lack of those protective components. And the prongs of Prowl's plugs were at the very outer edge of what Jazz's ports could accommodate. Prowl could make the physical connection a minor discomfort or an intense pain depending on how gentle he was, but he'd done no damage to Jazz. In fact... Jazz stretched again, just to feel all those prongs in all six of his almost-too-tight filling him up sooo good... Jazz rather liked how Prowl's plugs fit him. It wasn't a perfect fit; it was _better._

Prowl's sleepy agreement seeped through them. He hadn't been fond of the feeling of _tightness_ when they'd first started dating, and had in fact talked to a medic (he refused to tell Jazz which one) about getting the cords replaced with ones that had plugs fitted to Jazz's ports. Sweet as that would have been, as a gesture, Jazz was _very_ happy he'd convinced Prowl to keep his original ones. And Prowl had come to like how much it could feel like a _capture_ to "force" his too-large plugs into Jazz's ports. Pursuit vehicle. Anything that intensified the chase...

Jazz laid there strutlessly, enjoying the tightness and the heaviness of Prowl's personality holding and encircling his own while Prowl physically stretched like a cat, then stretched his doorwings. Jazz threw back his head and panted, kneading the pillow that cradled his frame, utterly caught up in the gentle pleasure-pain of stretching cables and pistons along with his lover. A yessss... Frag that felt good.

Prowl's amusement diffused through him like ink in water. "It'll feel better when you get up and stretch for yourself." Nooooo... He wanted to stay in bed with Prowl, wrapped up warm and safe in Prowl's thoughts, forever. "But then you won't get your presents," Prowl admonished gently, then wryly added, "And Bluestreak will be around again soon and this time he'll come in and physically yank us out of bed. Or worse, give us the pleading kitten-optics."

Jazz laughed. "Guess you're right."

Jazz stood, drawing his lover after him as though leashed. That thought of Jazz's made Prowl laugh inside their shared processor, amusement and agreement intertwined like the most delicate and complicated of knots. Prowl _was_ leashed. He'd follow Jazz anywhere. He could no more unmoor himself from his mate than Jazz would leave him. Jazz-and-Prowl. Prowl-and-Jazz. Forever.

Then Prowl's personality withdrew back into his own circuits and Jazz reluctantly pulled back from his lover's systems. With a quick, well-practiced tug, all of Prowl's prongs came free at once like they usually disconnected.

Only this time, like a puppet with his strings cut, Jazz collapsed, stumbling against his lover who barely managed to catch him. He let out a spark-wrenching _keen._

"Frag!" Prowl cursed, lowering them both to the ground. "Jazz? Lover?" Jazz shivered, cold, almost numb, and keened again. "One word. Just give me one word, lover. Tell me what you're feeling."

One word. Jazz could manage that. His processor looked for a word, one word, a phrase, anything, to describe what he was feeling. He skipped over cold and shaky and even bereft all as too limited... "Solam internicionem."

_The sole survivor._

"Oh!"

Suddenly Prowl's personally pressed gently up against him again and Jazz's suffering eased, a bulwark against emptiness.

_I'm sorry. I should have realized._

Jazz clung to Prowl's plating and shook his head, feeling the snug fit of one of Prowl's plugs in his topmost port. Prowl's presence was gentle and loving, a supporting hug instead of the possessive takeover of his systems it had been earlier. It was enough. Appreciatively Jazz leaned into the mental support. Prowl gave him a polite ping for access to his diagnostics, and Jazz handed them over almost gratefully.

Music... _Hark how the bells ~ sweet silver bells ~ all seem to say ~ throw cares away ~_... blasted from Prowl's speakers, and filled the room with a powerful beat and chorus of voices that drew Jazz into the melody. His shivers eased, but didn't disappear. Jazz breathed in time with the song, and when that ended, he synced with the next.

He didn't know whose thought it was to get themselves to the wash racks and under the warm cleanser. Jazz's shivers continued as he stood with his lover on shaky legs. Together they shuffled out the door. Prowl shut off his external speakers as they left, but continued streaming the music to Jazz.

Ratchet came out of the wash racks, right as the two of them approached. The medic looked at Jazz and frowned. "What's wrong?"

Jazz's defensiveness bled into Prowl, but the tactician managed to answer, relatively calmly, with a single Cybertronian glyph: _Sub-drop,_ with overtones for disconnection anxiety and the implications that it was mutually felt by the dominant.

Ratchet's optics narrowed. Prowl caught his hand before a medical scanner could appear. "That is rude," he said evenly. Jazz blinked his visor and managed to focus; he saw that Prowl's hand was trembling too. "I am currently monitoring his diagnostics and he is neither injured nor intoxicated. He is — we are _both_ — simply suffering from the aftermath of an intense night. Now out of the way."

Ratchet visibly restrained himself from his first impulse of ordering them both to medbay, and took a single measured step aside. "Let me know if that changes."

"I will," Prowl promised as he guided them both into the wash racks.

Ratchet had been their only occupant, it seemed, because all the stalls were empty. Jazz wouldn't be surprised to find all the Autobots who normally couldn't go without a morning shower were in the rec room, eagerly waiting for Optimus to give them all permission to dig into the gifts.

A sliver of guilt for delaying or missing the gift giving wound through Jazz, but was soothed away by Prowl. _Not your fault..._

_Ain't yours either._

Prowl managed a breath of laughter as he turned the shower on, bathing them in warm cleanser. Jazz's — and Prowl's — shivers both eased. Prowl let them sit on the ground, curled up around each other, drawing comfort from plating contact and mental hugs both. Prowl's radio resumed, belting out _A day or two ago ~ I thought I'd take a ride ~_ at a volume to be heard above the cascade of water. Slowly they both relaxed into each other.

Lovingly, reverently, Prowl ran his hands over Jazz, first scrubbing lightly at a smudge, then petting calmingly over Jazz's back. Jazz let himself fall strutlessly across his lover's lap, tucked himself under his bumper, and curled around Prowl's waist. Steam rose from their plating, but Prowl didn't turn down the temperature. They weren't shivering, but they weren't warm yet.

And then, almost like a switch had been thrown, they were warm enough. Still they stayed, silently agreeing that they needed a few more minutes. Even though they had just gotten an impatient ping from Bluestreak to come to the rec room. Prowl just pinged back that they'd be there soon, then set their statuses to Do Not Disturb.

When Jazz and Prowl were both purring their engines in perfect synchronicity and had been for several minutes, Prowl broke the rhythm of the song. "Do you think I can unplug now?"

Jazz didn't want to lose Prowl's wonderfully comforting mental hug, but they were barely meshed any longer. They’d have to disconnect eventually. "Yeah."

This time they went through the steps of withdrawing from each other, resetting their firewalls, and finally Prowl unplugging slowly, giving themselves a moment between each step to check and see if either of them were relapsing back into the horrible _utterly alone_ state.

Neither did, but Jazz still felt the loss of his lover's mind against his keenly.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," Jazz managed; it was mostly true. "You? I wasn't the only one suffering there for a bit."

"Recovering." Yeah. That's about how Jazz felt too. "Energon will likely help."

"Yeah." Jazz didn't let go or move to let his lover up.

"Jazz..."

"Don't wanna let go."

That earned him a stroke of gentle fingers over his helm and down his spine. "Then don't," Prowl said quietly. "I'm not going to be letting you go any time soon either. But we need to get up."

"Yeah."

The two of them managed not to stumble as they entered the rec room a few minutes later. They were holding hands, and several of the gathered Autobots jeered, ribbing them for their lateness. Jazz flipped them all off and led the way to the energon dispenser, their hands still tightly intertwined. Neither had been able to let go.

One cube made them both feel so much better, but Jazz's tanks were still low, so he drew them each a second to sip at as they took their places around the tree. They settled and Jazz did his best to crawl inside his lover's plating as they cuddled. He flipped off someone who laughed at them without looking to see who it was, because Prowl was doing his absolute best to facilitate the physical merger of their bodies. People laughed and Optimus had to call the whole room back to order.

The Autobots hadn't waited for them, but neither had Optimus let them tear into the pile of gifts haphazardly. There was a small sea of “wrapping paper” (repurposed, repainted tarps) and ribbons festooning the floor. The youngest Autobots were already playing with their gifts. Optimus had set up a Christmas account for each of them, limiting spending to $500 each and decreeing that everyone should only get one anonymous gift for one other mech. Names had been assigned secretly and randomly. “Secret Santa” had been what Spike and Sparkplug had called it. Jazz’s $500 had bought Hot Spot a lot of Legos. Being among the youngest Autobots, he and his team had already retreated from the tree to make room for others and play with their new toys. Hot Spot and First Aid needed tweezers to play with theirs (someone had hit on dollhouses for First Aid), but the other Protectobots had received mech-sized puzzles and games their gift-givers had commissioned from Wheeljack.

Jazz's grin met Prowl's smirk. The Legos had been a good choice.

This was good, Jazz thought, sipping his cube. He could see why humans did this presents thing. It felt awesome to sit and watch other people be happy. Jazz relaxed, not drawing away from his lover, but no longer as desperate for the contact. Prowl's fingers massaged over his audial horns, which, ooo... felt nice, and Jazz relaxed further. Basking in the warm fuzzies of Christmas morning.

Wheeljack got up to put his gift — a beginner's chemistry set for young humans, which made everyone laugh, a fat booklet of vouchers for free car washes in the nearest city, and a written promise from the owner that, yes, they could clean and repair fire damage — safely off to the side, and came back with cubes for those who were low. His vocal indicators flashed, though he didn't say anything, as he passed both Jazz and Prowl their refills.

Eventually someone handed Prowl a gift. A tiny thing, it fit in the palm of his hand and was so sloppily wrapped it was obviously from Blades. Prowl took great care in unwrapping it.

Books. A collection of over a hundred hardback books. Fiction, history, mythology, mathematics, tactics and games... All sorts of books. And underneath them, a single port-drive. The accompanying note said that it contained a digital copy of all the books, ready to download and read, so he didn't have to worry about manipulating the tiny, human-made objects.

Being several centuries older than Prowl, Jazz didn't get his gift until several more Autobots, including Optimus, had already opened theirs.

He looked at the packaging. It was a Cybertronian-sized gift, so not a collection of human music. It had been neatly wrapped, but not so neatly he suspected Prowl to be the origin. One of the scientists?

Only one way to find out. He tore into the (plain, undecorated) canvass tarp.

He stared at the beautifully crafted electro-zither and crystal-sax. Definitely Wheeljack's work, but the neat glyphs on the accompanying note were nothing like Wheeljack's barely-literate scrawl: _For you and Prowl. So you can play together._

And on the back: _If either of you needs a code-check, I promise to do it without the accusations this time._

_._

_._

_._

End.

Merry Christmas!


End file.
